


Treading Water

by punkfaery



Category: Dragon Age - All Media Types, Dragon Age II
Genre: Aftercare, Anal Sex, Angst with a Happy Ending, Canon-Typical Violence, Complicated Relationships, Friends to Lovers, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, Isabela (Dragon Age) and Innuendo, M/M, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Trauma Recovery, they're not Fine but like.... they're maybe getting there, well sort of
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-25
Updated: 2019-06-25
Packaged: 2020-05-19 14:53:24
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 16,359
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19359241
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punkfaery/pseuds/punkfaery
Summary: The water was ice-cold. Fenris surfaced, gasping, and blinked the salt from his eyes. There – a rickety iron ladder, encrusted with barnacles, going up and up until it reached a landing platform. He swam towards it.“Watch what you’re doing, knife-ear!” someone bellowed. “We don’t need any more corpses clogging up these shores!”Kirkwall. Home of slaves, rioters, rebels, and miscreants. The city that never closed its eyes. Where half the government was in the Carta’s pocket, and half the Carta was being paid off by the government. In short: a lesion. Or perhaps a sewer, teeming with people from every possible walk of life, all scrabbling together for coins in the same old stretch of muck.Oh, yes. He was going to fit in just fine.





	Treading Water

**Author's Note:**

> Some lines and scenes used in this fic are verbatim dialogue from the game; I do not own them, nor do I claim to. Additionally, there are some issues dealt with here that may be triggering, so please heed the warnings.

 

 

 

 

He woke inside-out with pain, every nerve as raw as if it had been soaked in acid. A scream caught in his throat, half-choking him. “Hush,” someone said, “quiet now,” but he couldn’t keep quiet, couldn’t stop breathing in gasping whimpers like a dog that had been kicked. “Do you know where you are?” the voice said.

He shook his head. He was lying down, he realised; there was something cold around his wrists, something that clinked when he tried to move them. “Who,” he said, and stopped, shocked at the sound of his own voice. It was wholly unfamiliar, low and rough, and when it came up it hurt his throat. He tried again: “Who are you?”

“Interesting,” said the voice. It did not seem to be addressing him. “It would seem he recalls nothing. Why is that, do you suppose?”

“I wouldn’t know,” said another voice, this one a little further off. “He’s the first to have survived the ritual. I trust the memory loss will not be an inconvenience to you?”

“Far from it,” said the first, sounding vaguely amused. He turned his head sideways, but couldn’t make out the speaker. He thought they must be standing somewhere behind him. Then another wave of pain crested and he allowed it to break over him, washing the world dark.

When he surfaced again, the second speaker was gone, and a man stood over him. Perhaps it was his supine position, but he seemed unfathomably tall, and thin too. A birch rod of a man. A beard the colour of cobwebs, and dark, expensive-looking robes. He too was unfamiliar.

“My name is Danarius,” he said. “You may call me ‘master’.” He smiled, and it was not a terrible thing, but instead kind and understanding, with very white teeth. “I don’t suppose you remember your own name, either? –It is no matter. You are Fenris. In Tevene, it means ‘little wolf’. Appropriate, really, considering the circumstances.”

Fenris blinked up at him, grappling with this new information. “I am… yours?”

“Of course,” said the man who called himself his master. “Who else’s?”

There was blood in his teeth; he could taste it. There was no energy left in him to spit. He pressed his face to the floor and breathed, slow and deep. Even that hurt, tasted all wrong, as though his lungs had been filled with sour brackish water. “It’s all right,” his master was saying, his voice damnably gentle. “I know it hurts. Just breathe for me, yes? It will pass soon enough.”

The stone was cold against his cheek. Fenris closed his eyes and tried not to listen to that voice, even if it was kind, even if it did tell him what he most wanted to hear. Even if it did tell him that he was going to be all right.

And now there was a hand on his throat, tracing a shape – a tree, he thought, with branches coming off it. “Beautiful,” he heard, or thought he heard, but it was hard to tell, because parts of the world had begun to fall away around him like a tree losing its leaves. He was going dark again. The thought provoked a sudden flood of terror; he kicked out against it, fought. _No – I have to stay, I have to –_

“Beautiful,” the voice said again, more distinctly this time, and like a cantrip the terror fell suddenly quiet, leaving him limp. Something was wrong, he knew, but he couldn’t remember what. Couldn’t remember _why._ Couldn’t, in fact, remember anything.

This time when the darkness came, he welcomed it.

 

* * *

 

And so it went.

Fenris, so said Danarius, took to slavery as though he’d been born to it – which, he supposed, he had. He grew adept at slipping on whatever role they wanted him to play, until he had all but forgotten what was underneath.

(Had there ever been anything, after all? He remembered nothing before the ritual, and had only a fleeting recollection of waking up from it, of those brief moments before Danarius had made his claim known.)

He learned things. Learned how to move unobtrusively, how to balance two plates on each arm, how to stand, how to sit, how to fight. He became a prism through which multiple different selves were refracted in an infinite spectrum. Here the warrior, faceless and inhuman, understood by the blade rather than the hand which wielded it; here the ornament, an exotic piece of artwork, inlaid with lyrium, decorated with expensive jewellery; here the slave, unseen and unheard until some service or other was required. Here the pet, bred for obedience, trained to please. The latter was the one his master favoured most, and Fenris least. He endured it nonetheless, because there was nothing else to be done.

That was the most important lesson that he had learned: his body was not his. It never had been.

His master was partial to shellfish, the kind that had to be prised from the undersides of rocks in places where the water was warm and the current treacherous. He was not permitted to gather them himself, but he was asked to prepare them, and so he did. There was something awful about it: the way he had to twist the rough shell loose from the twitching pink body, the way the twitching stopped as they were dropped, one by one, into the pot of boiling water, before being laid out on a silver plate ready for consumption. The smell clung to his hands for hours afterwards.

He thought of it later that night, incongruously, as he was stripped piece by piece and the collar was unlocked from his neck. There was a clink as it was dropped, as though it meant nothing, was simply another item of clothing. He should have felt better with it gone. He did not. The cool air on his neck was all wrong, too naked and vulnerable, like an exposed nerve.

“Kneel,” said Danarius with hideous gentleness, and he did, as always, as ever.

 

* * *

 

Fenris had thought there was power in being the warrior, once, and he was wrong. The warrior was nothing but a tool, just like all the others. _Kneel,_ said Danarius, and he knelt; _kill,_ and he killed. He had thought there was power in killing, too.

Another Fog Warrior melted out of the shadows, although it made no move to attack, and merely moved towards him at a slow pace with its hands raised. He sank the blade into its chest as though he was hewing the trunk of a tree. Blood sprayed out in a semicircle, spattering over his face. It tasted like cured meat. The Warriors did not fight as he took them down, as he culled them – not murdered, for _murder_ was a word used only for humans, and they were not human. They were beasts, nothing more, and they did not fight as he cut them down in droves.

Another appeared, almost twice his size with broad curling horns. This one had bound his shoulder when he first came here; he remembered its _vitaar,_ reddish brown, an unusual pattern like the veins of leaves. The look in its eyes was blank, almost resigned. It was not the expression of a fighter, but of a chicken laid out on the chopping block. Fenris knew that look, had worn it himself often enough. The rage he felt was sudden and vicious. Where did it come from? Was it directed at the Warriors, or at himself? He couldn’t tell. It didn’t matter. Another dropped beneath his blade, its neck severed almost in two. _Little wolf. My little wolf –_ Their numbers were thinning, now. He licked his upper lip and tasted salt.

Danarius was watching him from the shadow of a spreading oak, encased in a globe of protective magic. It was too bright to look at directly, but its proximity made the lyrium in his skin flare and ache. Fenris saw his lips move: _Kill them,_ he said, _finish it. Kill them all._

A presence at his back; he spun, phased, solidified, a sequence as instinctual as breathing. The wet grasp of flesh about his arm. The dying sputter of a heart beating its last within his clenched fist. He wrenched himself free with an effort, the body of the Warrior collapsing to the ground behind him, and turned to look again at Danarius. He was looking directly at Fenris, watching as his prized wolf did his bidding, and although his expression was distorted by the shimmering light, Fenris knew that he was smiling.

 

* * *

 

Running. It was the only thing he still remembered how to do.

Nothing in his possession but the clothes on his back and the sword strapped to his side, but that could change. He waited, hunkered low in the undergrowth by the side of the road. The mist obscured everything; he may as well have been in the Fade, wandering purposelessly through a ghost-world. His heart was a rapid unsteady drumbeat. Then, distant but growing closer every moment, he heard it. The rattle of wheels. The clatter of hooves.

Stumbling out in front of it would do no good – the mist was too thick, they wouldn’t see him in time. He waited until the dark shape of the carriage loomed into view, then struck out with his sword, catching it in the spokes of the wheel.

The carriage tilted. Thrown off by the sudden change in equilibrium, the horse pulled up short, and the carriage’s momentum kept it rolling forwards so that the two collided in a chaos of whinnying and cracking wood and plunging hooves. Fenris took advantage of the distraction to retrieve his sword and saunter up to the window.

He was disappointed to see that the occupants weren’t as rich as he’d expected. Merchants, probably, although their gaudy clothes and the woman’s paste gems suggested that they wanted to be thought of as more. The coach-driver took one look at Fenris’s greatsword, paled, and took his hands off the reins.

“Step out of the coach, please,” Fenris said to the man. “And leave your valuables inside.”

The coach-driver was the first to obey. (Sensible man, Fenris thought, and cast a cursory glance over him to make sure he wasn’t concealing any weapons.) His charges followed, rather more reluctantly. “Really, this is ridiculous,” the woman said, stumbling slightly as she descended the steps. “We’ve got a very important meeting to get to – ”

“Shut up,” Fenris said.

The man, close behind her, went rigid. “How _dare_ you speak to my wife like that!”

Fenris registered just a moment too late that his hand was behind his back – that it was coming forward, coming up, throwing. The blur of steel.

Instinct took over; he swung his sword by the blade, ducking as he did so. The dagger clattered against the hilt, thudding harmlessly to the ground. The man’s face dropped. “Not very clever,” Fenris said, stooping to pick it up. “I should kill you for that. Fortunately, I’m in a generous mood, so I’ll just take your vehicle and be on my way.” He bowed his head mockingly, and moved towards the driver’s side.

“Who the hell are you,” said the man, hoarsely. He was flushed and corpulent, with thinning hair. A crest adorned his jacket, the remnant of a noble family long since gone to seed. At his hip hung a leather purse, tied with a drawstring, chinking slightly whenever he moved.

“No one you need concern yourself with,” Fenris said. “Oh – I’ll have that too, please.”

The man handed his purse over, soft hands shaking. “Don’t kill me,” he said, pitifully, “please.”

Fenris was tempted to drive the sword through his head just for that. He couldn’t stand it when people begged. _Please, stop it – I’ll do what you want, just please –_ Nonetheless, he resisted the urge. Only wild animals killed just for the sake of killing. “Thank you,” he said, pocketing the promisingly heavy coin-purse, and he smiled at them. “I appreciate it.”

It was a mistake to leave them alive. But it was better than the alternative.

The horse, recovered now from its shock, set off at a leisurely trot. “I’ll find your master!” the robbed man snarled after him, emboldened by the growing distance between them. “I’ll find out who he is, and where he comes from, and I’ll tell him – he – he’ll come after you!”

“Oh, I do hope so,” said Fenris, and clicked his tongue. The horse picked up its pace, leaving the couple stranded on the road behind them, soon lost in the gathering mist.

Danarius had wanted a wolf. Something sharp and hungry, something with untold power that was nonetheless willing to roll over and expose its belly when commanded. But tame wolves, like wild ones, still had sharp teeth.

 

* * *

 

He came to Kirkwall on a ship, hemmed in by packets of waybread and casks of mead, lightless hours down in the deep dankness of the hold. The swaying made him sick to start with, but he quickly grew used to it. It wasn’t so bad, he thought. Plenty to eat. Crackers, biscuits, salted pork. Not much to see, of course, but for the price he’d paid it could have been much worse. He’d spent the last of his coin buying passage, and prayed it would be enough. The ship’s captain seemed like a man who respected money and not much else, and as long as Fenris remained the highest bidder he had nothing to fear.

When the lurch and roll of the vessel finally stopped – weeks later? Months? It was impossible to track the passing of time down there – it was nightfall, and he did not at first notice the hatch being heaved open. Then the smell of fresh, clean air hit him, startling after its long absence, and he tipped his head back and breathed deep. There was a square of sky above him, velvet-black and starless.

Testing out his cramped muscles, he scrambled to his feet and went up the ladder. The crew was already unloading their cargo into the waiting barge, seemingly without thought or care that they had an extra person aboard. Fenris measured the distance from prow to dock, stepped back for a run-up, and made the jump.

The water was ice-cold. He surfaced, gasping, and let the shock go through him without fighting it. The feeling returned to his limbs, a dull ache. He trod water, blinking the salt from his eyes, and looked about. There – a rickety iron ladder, encrusted with barnacles, going up and up until it reached a landing platform. He swam towards it.

“Watch what you’re doing, knife-ear!” someone bellowed from the window above him. “We don’t need any more corpses clogging up these shores!”

As welcomes go, it could have been more auspicious. Fenris, however, found he didn’t care in the slightest. For the first time in what must have been years, he felt a genuine smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. Kirkwall. Home of slaves, rioters, rebels, and miscreants. The city that never closed its eyes. Where half the government was in the Carta’s pocket, and half the Carta was being paid off by the government. In short, a lesion. An infected wound. A sewer, teeming with people from every possible walk of life, all scrabbling together for coins in the same old stretch of muck.

Oh, yes. He was going to fit in just fine.

The initial set-up was easy: a few words in the right ears, a few nights spent listening out for information in the local tavern, and he was all set. No one suspected the figure huddled in the far corner, nursing a mug of disgusting ale. No one suspected the foreigner, who moved little and spoke less. And drink loosened tongues; that much was known.

He heard things. Stories about an immigrant from Kirkwall come to reclaim his family’s title, hiring himself out for odd jobs here and there. _Hawke._ An odd name, and unfamiliar – but one that garnered respect nonetheless. The whole thing sounded dubious, but by all accounts the man got results. And Fenris needed results.

Now he stood face to face at last with a group of mercenaries he’d previously heard of only through rumour, and found he was utterly unsure how to proceed. The blood had seeped through his gauntlets, hot and tacky on his skin. Once the sensation had repelled him. Now, it was a comfort. A reminder that he was the one in control. He flicked his fingers, sending droplets spattering across the dust-trodden floor. One of the mercenaries – a dark-haired girl who greatly resembled Hawke – flinched.

“I apologise,” Fenris said, addressing (presumably) Hawke. It sounded woefully inadequate. “When I asked Anso to provide a distraction for the hunters, I’d no idea they’d be so…numerous.” He’d expected to be followed – should have known that Danarius would not relinquish his property so easily. But this…

Perhaps he had, after all, misjudged his own value. It wouldn’t have been the first time.

 _“You_ were responsible for this?” said Hawke.

Fenris recognised him from the descriptions: tall and broad, with sun-darkened skin and a keloid scar that went from beside his ear down to the corner of his mouth, following the line of his cheekbone. His armour could have rivalled Fenris’ own where spikes were concerned. “I’m the reason you’re here,” he said, feeling it was best to be upfront. “My name is Fenris. These men were bounty hunters, seeking to recover a magister’s lost property. Namely myself. Crude as their methods were, I could not face them alone.” Even revealing this much felt like a betrayal. He turned away to cover his discomfort, surveying the scene of carnage before him.

So the rumours had been right. Even with his own unique abilities, he could never have hoped to take out a group of this size. At best, he could have managed three. And yet here they lay, scattered across the courtyard like a game of toy soldiers abandoned by a petulant child. It was a summer evening, and blowflies were already beginning to gather, whining around the corpses in black clouds.

“Everything Anso said was a lie, then,” said Hawke, with the resignation of someone who had just watched their latest paycheck dissolve into the ether.

“Not everything. Your employer was simply not who you believed.”

Hawke shifted slightly, losing the fighting stance. He looked more curious than angry, but Fenris wasn’t fool enough to believe that he was off the hook yet. “Then why not just run?”

He shrugged. “There comes a time when you must stop running – when you must turn and face the tiger.” He glanced again at the girl – Hawke’s sister, presumably. Odd. She had no sword, no bow, not even a dagger that he could see. Perhaps she had simply concealed her weapons in their sheaths, or lost them during the fight. Yes. That had to be it.

The alternative would not – could not – be tolerated.

Hawke nodded, the movement slow and considered. “If they were really trying to recapture you,” he said, “I’m glad I helped.”

Now that _was_ unexpected.

Fenris turned his gaze back to Hawke. Scanned him for any sign of mendacity. He seemed sincere enough, but you could never tell. And after all, Fenris thought, it was hard to climb social ladders as quickly as Hawke had done without being a decently good liar. “I have met few in my travels who have sought anything other than personal gain,” he said, cautiously. Perhaps it was safe after all to broach the question that had been troubling him ever since he’d arrived. “If I may ask – what was in the chest?”

“Nothing,” Hawke said, a little bewildered. “It was empty.”

Empty. Of course. Not that he’d expected anything else, but it still felt like a loss. Which was ridiculous, of course. Couldn’t lose what you’d never had. “I suppose it was too much to hope for,” he said with a sigh.

He glanced at Hawke once again, trying to get his measure. A decent man? In Kirkwall? It seemed impossible. Then again, perhaps the Maker – for the first time in living memory – was on his side. Perhaps this mercenary, skilled as he was, could spell salvation.

Naturally, nothing was ever that easy.

 

* * *

 

“You’re a mage.”

“Oh, _that._ Yes, I am. So’s Bethany. I… sort of thought you knew?”

“You have a staff _– ”_

“I do, yes – ”

“ – you set that man on _fire – ”_

“Yes, that’s right. Listen,” Hawke said, “I’m just going to agree with everything you say until you calm down a bit, all right?”

Fenris folded his arms and set his back against the wall, fuming.

Hawke watched him from a distance, looking uncertain. Behind him stood an elf girl, her angular face tattooed with _vallaslin,_ a curved staff slung across one shoulder, and on her left a dwarf. The dwarf Fenris recognised well enough; he was a regular at The Hanged Man, and had made something of a name for himself, according to the scraps of information Fenris had managed to glean over the past few weeks. Bethany (was that her name?) was absent. Just as well. Three mages in a group was rather more than he could handle. He could barely cope with two.

“In fairness to me,” said Hawke, and oh, Fenris was _really_ going to slap him in a second, “I did use magic right in front of you in Darktown. I figured you were just being discreet.”

“I wasn’t,” said Fenris.

“Why do you hate mages so much?” piped up the elven girl.

Fenris swung towards her, ready to retort – could she really be so foolish as to ask? – but found to his surprise that her face was open and guileless. He shook himself. Innocence was one of the easiest things to fake. “That’s none of your concern.”

“Do you hate me?”

“I don’t even _know_ you.” Frustrated, he turned away again.

“Listen,” Hawke said. “Whatever problems you have with mages – and I’m sure they’re valid problems,” he added hastily, seeing the fury on Fenris’ face, “the fact remains that I am one. I’ve always been one. It’s not something that I can change, even if I wanted to. If you can’t handle that, our association ends here. You go home, I go home, we don’t have to work together again. Seems a shame, but needs must.” Hawke reached into his pocket and Fenris tensed instinctively, sword at the ready – but he was just taking out a piece of paper, with something that looked like an address scrawled upon it. “Then again,” he said, holding out the piece of paper. “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

Fenris took the paper out of habit, and glanced at the handwriting. It was so messy that he doubted he would have been able to read it even if he had been literate. “What exactly are you suggesting?” he said.

“I’m suggesting that we work together,” Hawke said. “Me with my staff, you with your sword and your… weird glowy fist of death. What _is_ that, by the way? Is it a Tevinter thing? An elf thing? Magic? I’m assuming it’s not magic. You seem to hate magic. So how does it work? Do you have a special amulet that lets you put your hand through people?”

“Hawke,” the dwarf said from behind him.  “Time and a place.”

“Time and a place. Right.” Hawke coughed. “So what do you say? Partners?”

He wasn’t the only one looking at Fenris with expectancy. The dwarf was waiting, arms folded, and the elf-girl gave him an encouraging smile. The weight of their hopeful gazes nearly sent his willpower folding to its knees.

Fenris steeled himself. _Never trust a mage._ No matter what happened, he couldn’t risk forgetting that. “I’ll think about it,” he said, and he let the paper flutter to the ground before turning his back on them, walking away.

 

* * *

 

 Time – as is its tendency – passed.

Some days, he found himself half-hoping for the news that Danarius had come to Kirkwall to reclaim what he thought was his. At least then there would be some sort of end to it, the chance to resolve this fruitless waiting. Other days, what he had here was enough. More than enough.

Four months after coming to Kirkwall he found himself on a mission near the Wounded Coast, clearing up after a recent Carta attack. Hawke and Isabela were at his sides, talking about something or other. Fenris kept his gaze sharp and his wits about him, scanning the peripheries for survivors.

Aveline rounded the corner, shield hefted on her shoulder. As was her custom she didn’t bother with pleasantries, but cut straight to the heart of the matter. “I received a message from one of our scouts and headed out as soon as I could. The other guardsmen should be on their way. Where’s everyone else?”

“No idea,” Hawke told her. “They scattered as soon as the Coterie showed up. Pride of the King’s Guard, honestly. You should give them a promotion.”

“Get to a safe place if you can find one, and stick together. I’m going to scout for survivors. If you see any stragglers, dispatch them.”

“Aye aye, captain,” said Isabela, saluting.

She turned away, the sunlight glinting off the bright curve of her sword. “And save the quips for when we’re out of the mess,” she said over her shoulder, setting off down the path.

“Aye aye, captain,” said Isabela again, very quietly.

They headed east, up the long stretch of hill that led back to the Gallows.

Survivors were few and far between, and stragglers were even fewer. The ones they found were injured. Some worse than others. “Do any of us have medical training?” Hawke said to them. “I know I don’t, but Isabela? Fenris…?” He looked from one to the other without much hope.

“I have a bottle of vodka and some knives,” said Isabela, cheerfully.

Despairing, Hawke, looked to Fenris, who shrugged and said: “I’m more skilled at taking lives than saving them. However, if you need any amputations done…”

Hawke sighed. “Maker. I _knew_ I should’ve brought Anders. Fenris, don’t make that face.”

Fenris said, “I’m not making a face.”

“You were,” said Isabela. “You were making your ‘ugh, Anders’ face.” She contorted her expression into what was clearly meant to be an approximation of the ‘ugh, Anders’ face.

“Ridiculous,” Fenris muttered under his breath.

“Quiet!” said Hawke. “I heard something.”

They all fell still, listening. For a moment, nothing – then a sharp cry. “Help!”

“Oh dear,” said Isabela, sounding bored. “Sounds like we’ve got a damsel to undistress.”

They moved as one towards it, up where the path curved around to the left. The sight was familiar, expected: a woman lay at the edge of the path, looking like little more than a pile of rumpled clothes. Fenris looked closer and cringed; her leg was missing from the knee down, the sand around her dark with blood. It was surprising was that she hadn’t bled out yet. An injury of that magnitude ought to have killed her, and if they didn’t act soon it still might.

“Please,” she said, upon seeing them. “Help me.”

“Oh! Yes, of course, absolutely,” said Hawke, and gave the others a mildly panicked look that said _what am I supposed to do with this?_ Fenris withheld a sigh. How was it that someone so competent in nearly every area of his life floundered at the first sight of gore? 

“You’ll want to tie it up,” Isabella said. She reached up, unknotting her bandanna. “Pull this tight around the leg. _Really_ tight. It’ll stop the blood from flowing so quickly.”

“Right,” Hawke said, and took the material from her. He glanced over the woman’s severed limb, and swallowed twice. “Let’s see what we can do here, then.”

“Please,” the woman said again, fainter this time. “It hurts so much…”

Hawke slipped the bandanna under her leg, wincing as she cried out. “Okay. Yes, I know. Just try and hold on for a bit longer, please?”

“Hawke,” said Fenris.

“What?”

He didn’t know what to say. There was nothing _to_ say, nothing was wrong, he was just being paranoid again, surely – and yet a faint prickle of unease was starting up, making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end.

“Now elevate the limb,” said Isabela, who was watching.

“Doing my best,” Hawke gritted out. He was kneeling. Fenris glanced around again, from left to right. The prickle of unease was deepening, running through him. Against his will the lyrium flared, brightening then fading again. “Hawke,” he said sharply, “stand _up.”_

“What’s got you all riled up?” Isabela said, frowning at him.

He said, “I don’t feel good about this.”

“You never feel good about anything,” she retorted.

He was about to respond, when he heard something unmistakeable. The scrape of a blade being drawn, only just audible over the sea-wind. The woman on the ground met his eyes. She knew that Fenris knew. Her mouth opened.

_“Move out!”_

There was no time even to shout a warning. From the banks on either side of the path rose figures in dark clothing, moving with swift grace towards them. Hawke was on his feet in an instant; Isabela followed his lead, burying a knife in the throat of an approaching man. The woman they’d been trying to help was wrenching at the leg of her trousers, freeing her lower calf from where it had been concealed in the folds of fabric. A blade came out from behind her back. Hawke met it with his staff. Fenris saw the blow shudder up his body before fire exploded outwards, the would-be assassin becoming a pillar of smoke and flame. Her shrieks were lost in the rising chaos of battle.

“Fenris! Get behind me!” Hawke called over. Nearby, Isabela had dropped into a crouch, plucking her dagger from the throat of its victim.

Fenris barely stifled a snort of contempt; did Hawke not think he could handle himself? He retrieved his sword from its sheath, allowing the lyrium to flicker into ghostly life.

Isabela, her hair now falling freely over her face, rolled up from her crouch, knife in hand. The bright shaft of silver spun and met its mark, sending the victim to the ground with a heavy thud. Another dagger appeared from her sleeve and went the same way. Behind him, Fenris heard the telltale crackle of electricity magic, filling the air with the smell of ozone. Footsteps on his left. He turned, swung, felt his sword split his assailant’s flesh as easily as paring fruit. Then they were all on him, three or four at least, and he was parrying desperately, the clash of steel echoing.

These were no ordinary Carta thugs, he realised. They had purpose. _Intent._ Every movement was calculated, evidence of the kind of rigorous training that he’d only ever seen in – in –

 _Tevinter,_ he realised, and almost dropped his sword as a shudder went through him.

His guard was back up in seconds, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. A sword broke his defences, its wielder lunging towards the weak spot in his armour. For a moment he thought that it had missed. Then the pain hit, and he only just managed to block the next stroke, the sun on the blades almost blinding him.

The dance, previously a well-trodden routine of parry and thrust, had changed. Now it was a dance to the death – a choreography where every stroke counted and one slip could mean the end of everything. He ducked a blow and silently cursed Hawke for being so trusting.

Hawke. Where _was_ Hawke? Fenris dared a glance over his shoulder and saw him ablaze with white light, electricity sparking from his fingertips, zigzagging from one assailant to the next and sending them into twitching paroxysms. In spite of the body count, though, Hawke was tiring. Fenris could see it in the shake of his hands, the way his chest heaved. His hands tightened around the greatsword.

But he’d allowed his attention to wander for too long. The hilt of a weapon smashed into his knuckles and he heard himself cry out, saw the sword fall loose from suddenly nerveless fingers. _So this is it. Stupid, stupid, stupid – what’s the first thing they taught you? Keep your eye on the damn target._ He’d forgotten that. How had he forgotten that? A kick to the back of his knees and he was crumpling, on all fours on the dusty ground. Above him a shadow blotted out the sun.

“Danarius wants me alive,” he rasped to the man who stood over him, knowing it was his only chance. “He won’t be happy if you bring back a corpse.”

“The magister wants you _disabled,”_ corrected the thug, and with one swift blow to the shoulder Fenris was on his back, the sky wheeling above him. A foot on his chest, pinning him. “He was nonspecific as to how.”

Fenris’ ears rang.

“A limb or two should do it,” said the man, thoughtfully. The sun behind him blotted out his face as he hefted the sword, grim determination in every line of his body.

Then he stopped, and made an odd sound, like a drain being unblocked – a gurgling noise, deep in his chest, that sounded like it was trying to be a question. His hand went to his abdomen.

“Sorry,” said Hawke from behind him, not sounding very sorry at all. “I prefer Fenris with all four limbs attached, if it’s all the same to you.”

The thug’s hands clawed at his stomach, feeling for the obstruction. He bent double. Made that gurgling sound again. Hawke reached out a hand (“You might want to stand back”) and yanked Fenris to his feet, pulling him to a safe distance.

“What did you – ” Fenris started to say, and at that precise second the man exploded.

Fenris had seen a lot of unpleasant things in his life. This wasn’t the worst of them. It was definitely at least in the top ten.

He stood there, staring at the heap of steaming viscera that had – up until about two seconds ago – been a man, and felt something halfway between revulsion and utter relief. “Andraste’s plump tits, Hawke,” said Isabela from behind them, sounding absolutely disgusted. “Isn’t that going a bit far?”

“He was going to hurt Fenris,” said Hawke, flatly.

Isabela walked over to the loose skin-bag that was all that was left of the thug, and prodded it with her boot. Thick ropes of gut glistened in the sunlight. “I was going to have that nice coat of his,” she said, “but for some reason it’s lost the appeal.”

Hawke wiped a spatter of gore from his forehead. “I’m sure you’ll find something just as good. Do you think we got everyone?” 

As one, they turned and looked back over the scene. The sand was more red than brown. “Oh, I don’t know,” said Isabela. “I reckon we could have killed them even harder if we _really_ put our backs into it.”

Fenris went over and picked up his greatsword, ignoring the pain in his hand and shoulder. “We should get back to Kirkwall,” he said. The words sounded like they were coming from somebody else.

Hawke glanced at him, saw all that he needed to see, and nodded. He turned to Isabela. “Find Aveline. She needs to know what’s happened. There could be more of them, and we don’t want her taken off guard. We can regroup back in Kirkwall.”

“I can manage that.” Isabela stepped over towards the dead woman – little more than a pile of ashes by now – and began to sift through the scraps, searching. “Ah! Here we go!” Beaming, she came up with her bandanna, now dusty and stained with blood. Hawke looked revolted. “Don’t give me that face,” she said. “It’s got sentimental value. Which way was our dashing Guard-Captain headed, again?”

“East, I think,” said Hawke. “Please don’t put that on your head.”

“But the sun’s in my eyes,” protested Isabela.

_“Please.”_

“All right, all right! I’ll wash it first. Maker, you’re prissy. What do you want me to tell Aveline?”

“Tell her we were ambushed. Tell her they were looking for – ” Hawke’s gaze flickered over to Fenris and he faltered. “For something.”

Some _one,_ Fenris thought bitterly.

“Make sure you two get back safe, won’t you?” Isabela said. “I won’t always be around to save your necks.” She flashed them a quick grin and was gone, vanishing back the way they’d come.

“Are you all right?” Hawke said to him.

Fenris pressed the tips of his gauntlets to his thighs in an attempt to kill the tremor. “They were from Danarius.”

“Yes.”

“You knew.”

“I suspected.”

Another one of those cursed shudders, sending him off balance for a brief instant. “Hey,” Hawke said, and he put his hands on Fenris’ shoulders, steadying him. Fenris went rigid – more in surprise than anything else. “It’s all right. Try and calm down. It’s over.”

“It’s not over,” Fenris said. “It’s never going to be – Hawke, we have to leave. Now. There could be more of them.” He was shaking, and couldn’t tell if it was from the pain or from something else. His shoulder was throbbing, the ache spreading down his arm.

“Even if there are, I’d say we sent out a fairly clear message,” Hawke said.

Fenris turned his head, glancing at the bodies. He thought he saw one twitch, and felt his heartbeat speed up; but it was only the wind, teasing a piece of fabric into movement.

“Hey. _Hey._ Breathe, Fenris.” Hawke gripped his shoulders tighter. “Look at me.”

Fenris realised that his breaths had gone short, as if each one was being dragged out of him with a hook. Trying his best to regulate them, he obeyed.

Hawke was very close. Distantly, Fenris heard the shushing of the water against the rocks, as quiet and as regular as breathing. He should look away, he knew – break that dark and urgent gaze – and yet he did not.

Hawke said, “Your shoulder is bleeding.”

For some reason the reality of the injury hadn’t quite hit him, but when he glanced down he saw the blood creeping along the exposed part of his arm in dark rivulets. “It’s fine,” he said. It was. He’d had worse.

“It’s not,” Hawke said. “You should let Anders have a look at it.”

Fenris gave him a long steady stare, which he hoped would fully convey the absurdity of the sentiment. It was successful; Hawke wilted beneath it. “Fine. But if you insist on going back to that horrible mansion of yours, I’m coming with you. You don’t know where that blade might have been.”

“Buried in the necks of several members of the guard, I assume,” Fenris said.

“You don’t know where _they_ might have been,” said Hawke. “I’m coming with you and you’re letting me clean it. And heal it, if you can bear that. No arguments.”

“I do not appreciate being ordered around,” Fenris said, and immediately regretted it. Hawke was looking crushed, which it turned out he could do very well; Fenris struggled with himself for a minute before finally forcing out, “I’m sorry. That was uncalled for.”

“It was, a bit,” Hawke said. “But I’ll forgive you. On one condition.”

Fenris sighed. “Healing spell?”

“Yep.”

As they made their way along the white sand roads, the pain began to make itself known, bone-deep and coursing from his collarbone down to his wrist. Fenris ignored it with the ease of long practise, and kept walking. The heat didn’t help; he could feel the sun beating upon his back like a living thing, keeping time with the throb of his heart. The greatsword seemed to be growing heavier by the minute, its strap cutting into his shoulder.

As though reading his mind, Hawke put out a hand to stop him and said, “That sword’s putting pressure directly on the wound. Where’s the buckle? I’ll carry it back for you.”

Fenris considered protesting, but the ache in his shoulder decided for him. “I’ll do it,” he said, reaching up to the fastenings. His arm twinged as he lifted it, and he only just managed to hide a wince. Lifting the sword free, he passed it to Hawke, letting out a slow breath at the sudden lightness. He hadn’t realised how much it had been weighing on him; with it gone, he felt almost as though he could simply leave the ground and fly back to Kirkwall.

“Wow,” Hawke said, stumbling slightly as he lifted the sword on to his back. “This thing weighs a ton. How the hell do you just swing it around like a matchstick?”

Fenris shrugged, one-shouldered. “I practise.”

“No, I mean it. It’s impressive. You should let me watch sometime.” Fenris raised his eyebrows, and Hawke reddened, seemingly realising how his comment might have been interpreted. He opened his mouth, then shut it again. Fenris was almost tempted to laugh. The man fought darkspawn and blood mages and Coterie gang members on a daily basis, always ready with an inappropriate quip or jest, and yet it only took one misaimed comment (and a sideways look) to reduce him to speechlessness.

“Perhaps I should,” he said, enjoying Hawk’s spreading flush. “It isn’t a terribly interesting sight, though.”

Looking relieved that he was playing along, Hawke managed a smile and said, “I’ll be the judge of that, thank you.” He glanced at Fenris’s shoulder and stiffened. “It’s still bleeding. That’s – really not good. How do you feel?”

“Fine,” said Fenris, and then realised quite abruptly that he wasn’t. The faint dizziness he’d been ignoring for the past half-hour was growing worse, making black spots dance at the edges of his vision.

Hawke snorted. “Don’t give me that. Am I going to have to carry you as well as the sword?”

“You’re welcome to try,” Fenris said, and pushed past him, taking the hill at the fastest pace he could manage – which wasn’t terribly fast, considering the way his heart was fluttering like a trapped bird, struggling to compensate for the blood he’d lost on the walk.

“My, you’re in a hurry,” Hawke said, matching him with infuriating ease. “Do you have somewhere to be? Or are you just fed up with my company and trying to escape? If it’s the second one, you can just say so. It won’t be the worst thing anyone’s said to me by far.”

Fenris rounded on him. “I’ve had worse than this, and I’ll thank you not to patronise me,” he hissed.

“Hey,” Hawke said, and Fenris realised that his hands were clenched so hard they were quivering. With some effort he loosened them, and glanced up to find Hawke regarding him seriously. There was no pity in his gaze, for which Fenris was thankful. “Everyone’s allowed to be weak sometimes,” he said. “There’s no shame in it.”

“I am _not_ weak – ”

“No,” said Hawke with sudden, startling vehemence. “You’re not. You’re one of the bravest people I’ve ever met. And I hate that, because you shouldn’t have had to be.”

Fenris found he had no response ready for that. He looked away, jaw working in tight circles.

Hawke sighed and manoeuvred Fenris’s uninjured arm over his shoulder, although their height difference meant he had to bend down to do so, and wrapped his own around Fenris’s waist. “Let me know if you’re about to pass out,” he said.

“I’ll do my best,” Fenris said. It _was_ easier with Hawke supporting him – it took some of the weight off his legs, and the pressure around his waist was grounding, something to focus on as the hill grew steeper. He concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, each step taking him closer to home.

“Talk to me,” he said, without thinking.

Hawke stilled for a second, then continued, the falter barely noticeable. “What about?”

“I don’t know. You’re good at talking. I’m sure you can think of something.”

Hawke considered. Then he said, “Did I ever tell you about the time Carver nearly burned down the local ale-house because he didn’t realise alcohol was flammable?”

“No,” said Fenris. “Tell me.”

Hawke cleared his throat, and began.

The resulting story kept them going all the way back the city. It was soothing not only because it required little response, but because of the picture it painted. A world of green fields and narrow streams, shopkeepers plying their trade in the streets, boys running wild with no consequences save for a scolding. It was so far removed from his own experience that it might as well have been the wildest sort of fantasy. It belonged to the realm of mythology. Surely, he thought, that wasn’t really life. That wasn’t really how things were.

“And she didn’t even mind?” he said, as the story seemed to be drawing towards its conclusion.

Hawke laughed. “Far from it. I think it was the most exciting date she’d ever had. Of course, she was off next week with the butcher’s son, and wasn’t _that_ a nice little bit of drama – ”

And he was away again. Fenris thought he could quite easily drift off to the sound of that light, in-the-background voice.

It wasn’t until long after that – after Hawke had cleaned the wound and Fenris had reluctantly allowed him to heal it, after he’d stripped off his armour and collapsed into bed – that he realised he’d thought of Kirkwall as _home._

* * *

 

They were in the Hanged Man, and Anders was halfway through his third mug of ale, which always heralded the beginning of another rant about the plight of mages. This one was even less comprehensible than usual. Only Merrill seemed to be paying active attention; Varric was staring off into space, eyes glazed, whilst Isabela was discussing swordsmanship animatedly with a pretty bartender who used to work for the Coterie. Hawke sat beside Fenris, close but not too close for comfort. He smelt faintly (but not unpleasantly) of dog.

“I mean, it’s beyond inhumane,” Anders was saying, hands sketching shapes in the air as they always did when he got worked up. “Can you imagine being so fucking twisted that you’d be willing to rob someone of all their faculties just to provide yourself with some sense of security? I mean, I don’t know what I’d do without a mind.”

“It doesn’t take a huge leap of the imagination,” said Fenris into his glass.

Anders turned on him. Hawke, sensing a potential brawl on the horizon, stepped in. “Anyone fancy a game of Wicked Grace?” he said loudly. Merrill turned towards him, bright-eyed, and opened her mouth, only to be cut off by Varric. “Not you, Daisy. Don’t you remember what happened last time?”

“I didn’t actually _lose_ anything,” Merrill pointed out, looking chastened.

“Only because Isabela took pity on you and gave it all back,” said Hawke, giving Fenris a conspiratorial grin, and Fenris responded in kind with some meaningless riposte, and it was, as always, just the same. It was always going to be the same. Unless he did something to change that – something that he couldn’t come back from.

He stood. “I have to leave. Carry on without me.”

Hawke’s head shot up. “Leave? Why? What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” said Fenris. “I just need to think.”

He walked home alone, in the growing dark, his shadow attached to his heels. The mansion loomed up before him. Letting himself in – he had no key, and did not need one, for who would want to steal from someone who had nothing? – he took a deep, shaky breath. It tasted of dust and must and mould. It tasted of empty things.

Hawke had called him brave, and he’d hated that, the idea that he was nothing without his past to define him, that his worth was drawn only from his suffering, that things only had value once they’d been through the fire and come out clean.

He was not brave. He was not brave because he did not fight; he allowed it all to happen right up until the weight of his own guilt grew too heavy to bear. The only achievement he had to his name is that he had survived, and that, he thought with a kind of amused bitterness, was hardly an achievement at all. Bravery wasn’t simply a matter of doing something frightening simply because you had no other choice. It was about _making_ a choice. It was about having the chance to back out, and not taking it.

It was time for him to prove himself.

The dwarf who opened the door to him seemed startled, and Fenris could scarcely blame him. His appearance was unsettling at best, and the wild look in his eyes probably didn’t help. “Is Hawke in?” he asked without preamble.

“Still out at the tavern, I think,” the dwarf said, “but he should be back in an hour or two. Shall I leave a message?”

“Don’t bother. I will wait,” Fenris said roughly, and stepped inside, not waiting for permission. He supposed he could have sat, but he was far too restless for that. Instead he paced like a caged wolf, alert for the sound of the front door opening. The dwarf – Bodahn, he remembered – watched him uneasily for a while, then retired to the kitchen. Fenris wondered if he was gossiping about the strange tattooed elf that had invited himself in without bothering to explain why he was here, and found himself wholly unable to care. His whole being was focused on one thing. Or rather, one _person._

Time slowed, the seconds passing like minutes. Fenris paced. He heard clatterings from the kitchen, the quiet murmur of voices, but aside from that the mansion was quiet. When he heard a key turn in the lock, his whole body tensed as though preparing for a fight, muscles locking up. With some effort, he managed to relax them, and looked up to see Hawke stepping through the door, swinging his staff down from his shoulder and leaning it against the wall. He looked over and blinked, taking a moment to register. “Fenris? What – ”

“I have been thinking of you,” Fenris interrupted, words almost tripping over one another. “In fact, I have been able to think of little else.” He was so on edge that he didn’t even bother with greetings – and besides, they both knew why he was here. He could tell by Hawke’s expression that he had guessed even before Fenris had spoken. “Command me to go,” he said, “and I shall.”

Part of him hoped that Hawke _would_ tell him to go, would remove the choice from him altogether and his culpability along with it. The part of him that was a free man revolted against the very idea, whilst another part – shameful, hidden – yearned for that loss of control that came with having things simply decided for him. Both parts listened with baited breath for Hawke’s response.

“Did I say anything?” Hawke said. Fenris dared to look up. Hawke’s eyes were very dark, but there was something in them. Not reproach. An invitation.

_Now or never._

Fenris took a swift step forward and pressed their mouths together.

It was clumsy at first, inelegant, but then Hawke’s hands came up and the angle changed, the kiss deepening. Fenris opened his mouth under it, but it wasn’t enough. He needed more – needed to be _closer._ The wall was directly behind him; he stepped backwards and pulled Hawke to him by the wrists, ignoring the pounding of his heart.

 _Hush now._ Hawke’s mouth was on his neck and he felt once again the old terror. _No need to be frightened. I’m not hurting you, am I?_

He swallowed. Trying to breathe. Failing.

“Hey. You all right there?”

Hawke had drawn away from him, he realised, though their hands remained entwined. He realised also that he was shaking, and was revolted at his own frailty. “I am fine,” he said, roughly. “Continue.”

Hawke gave him a long, searching look. Fenris realised with a dawning horror that not only was he not convincing Hawke, but he wasn’t even convincing himself. “You know,” he said, “this isn’t going to be nearly as much fun if you’re not honest with me.”

Fenris balked at the idea. Honesty he could do, but on his terms, and only when he knew how to articulate himself. He did not know how to explain that the only language he had been taught was that of violence, that all this was terrifyingly new to him – not the act itself, but the form of it, giving and taking rather than simply _taking._  “Could we,” he said, and stopped, swallowed, tried again: “Could we… go slowly?”

Hawke hesitated. “If you’d rather wait – ”

“No,” Fenris said, more hurriedly than he’d meant to, “I want this.” It was true, he realised; wanting was a thing foreign to him, but the desire he felt now was hot and sharp-edged. “I do. Just…”

“Slowly?” Hawke’s thumb moved over his hand, light as a moth. “Yes, I think we can manage that.”

Fenris couldn’t look at him. This felt, he thought, like a kind of undressing. No – not quite. Undressing he was used to, in a variety of contexts; this was far more intimate, and in a way, far more dangerous. He remembered the shellfish he used to prepare for Danarius, more than ten years ago now, shucking off their shells until they were raw and pink and naked. The smell of them, rich and briny, like tears. “I don’t know what I’m doing,” he managed.

“Neither do I,” Hawke said. “Shall we figure it out together?”

Fenris forced himself to glance up. The eyes that met his were dark, but not in the same way that his own were dark. They had flecks of light in them – amber and honey, warm colours. For a brief instant, he thought: _So this is what home feels like._

No. Fenris shook his head, bringing himself up short. This mansion was not a home, and Kirkwall was not his city. Then again – what was?

“We can certainly try,” he said, and stepped forward.

This time, neither of them pulled away.

The bedroom seemed an awfully long way off, but they got there in the end. Hawke opened the door with the hand that wasn’t holding Fenris’, and they stumbled in, letting the door close behind them. For a moment they hesitated just inside the threshold, unsure where to go from here. Fenris felt himself flushing, aware suddenly of where they were about to go with this. What they were about to do. Would it change things? Yes, most likely. But that didn’t have to be bad, necessarily.

“You’re doing that thing again,” Hawke said.

“What thing?”

“The thing where you overthink everything and start chasing your own tail. It’s fine. We’re fine.” His hand came up, stroking the back of Fenris’ neck with infinite gentleness. “Of course, if you’re _not_ fine, please do say so. I’ve told I can come on a bit strong at times.”

“I haven’t – noticed that,” Fenris managed.

“I think you must be the only one.” Hawke kissed him again, very chastely, on the mouth. “Really, though. Are you all right with this?”

“I think so,” Fenris said, and then, more definitely, “Yes.” He glanced up at Hawke, feeling more aware than ever of their height difference. “Are you?”

A grin. “Never better.”

They sat down on the bed together, and Fenris wasted no time in kissing him again, hands coming up to rest on Hawke’s back.

For some time that was all they did – hot mouths and tongues sliding together, testing things out. Exploring. Hawke’s hand was in Fenris’ hair, scratching gently against his scalp. It was – unfamiliar, certainly, but not unpleasant. Not unpleasant at all. He let his eyes close and just felt it, drinking in the warmth, the smell, the feel of someone else’s hands touching him without intent to hurt.

It was all so _new._

Then Hawke broke away, burying his face in the curve of Fenris’ neck. Fenris was briefly unsettled, but he could sense by the easy slump of Hawke’s shoulders that nothing was really wrong. A hand came up and tugged Fenris’ arm down, fingering the sharp edges of the gauntlets. “Can you take these off?” he said, his voice vibrating against the skin. “Not that they aren’t doing it for me, but…”

“Oh, really? I thought they might spice things up a little,” Fenris said, deadpan.

Hawke looked alarmed for a brief moment. Then he caught the glint in Fenris’ eye and burst out laughing. “You’re awful.”

“I try,” Fenris said, and kissed him again, wrapping his arms tightly around his neck. Then he pulled back, slipping off his gauntlets, and then – boldness growing – his armour. Now dressed in leggings and a thin undershirt, he returned to the bed.

“Still good?” Hawke asked presently, sometime after things had turned horizontal.

Fenris replied by curling into him, mouth seeking out the space between his collarbones. He felt him shift – a good sign, surely – and tongued it lightly. A catch of breath. “Keep – keep doing that, please.”

“You mean this?” Fenris said, and bit down. Hawke shuddered violently.

“Yes, _that_.”

Fenris did it again, sucking hard at the pulse point until Hawke was squirming underneath him. When he pulled away he expected to see closed eyes and painful need, but Hawke was staring up at him, undone but no less beautiful for it. “Maker,” he said, and surged up, rolling Fenris on to his back so he could return the favour.

The sensation of his tongue tracing down Fenris’ throat, following the lines of the markings, was almost too much to bear. He tilted his head back, allowing for greater access. For a moment, it felt indescribably good – then quite abruptly it tipped over the edge into pain, a hard bright flare of it that made him hiss and draw back.

“Oh shit,” Hawke said, already retreating. “Did I hurt you? I’m sorry, I didn’t mean – ”

“Not you,” Fenris said. The pain was dying away, but he was now growing aware of a dull ache in the background, mapping out all the places Hawke’s fingers had been. In a strange way, he almost didn’t mind it. It was like a reminder – proof that this was really happening, that it wasn’t just some fever dream and he’d wake up any moment now, alone and shivering in his own bed. “It’s the markings. It – they – ”

He was so dizzy that he could hardly think straight. Hawke’s hands were on his face, cupping it gently, thumbs smoothing along his cheekbones. Fenris let his eyes flutter closed, drinking it in. “Do you want to stop?” he said.

Fenris shook his head.

“You’re sure? Because – ”

“I don’t want to stop,” Fenris said, and then he was kissing him again, half-feverish, rolling over so that he was lying atop Hawke, feeling the warmth of him all along his body. Hawke opened his mouth to him. For a moment it was as if they were melting into each other, becoming one person. Fenris pressed closer and thought deliriously: _I could have had this all along. I should have. This is what it’s supposed to be like._

“Mmn,” Hawke said, breaking away to gasp briefly for air. “Shirt off, _please.”_

Fenris obeyed, arms shaking only slightly. As he tugged it over his head, he saw Hawke glance hungrily over him. No possession in that glance, and no desire to dominate – only the expression of a starving man offered the kind of food that he has craved for years. “You too,” Fenris said, self-consciously crossing his arms over his chest. The air was cool on his skin, making him shiver.

Hawke nodded in a daze and followed suit, undoing the laces on his shirt before removing it and dropping it to one side. Fenris took him in – the scars, the ripples of muscle, the frankly unexpected amount of hair. _Safe,_ he thought, and shook his head to clear it. Where had that come from?

Everything about the situation should have felt wrong: the closeness, the sense of entrapment, the breaking of boundaries that he’d held in place so firmly for so many years. Fenris collapsed on to him again, hands twisting into his hair, tugging his head back hard so that he could lick into his mouth.

They could do this. They could. They _could._

When Hawke slid oil-slick fingers inside him, twisting and then scissoring them, he felt a brief lurch of panic – but it settled down when Hawke kissed the place where his jaw met his ear, feather-light, and breathed, “Still all right?”

Fenris nodded, feeling the tension drain out of him.

“Good,” and the fingers curled inwards, only slightly, sending a heady rush shuddering up his frame. It wasn’t – _new,_ exactly, but –

“Again,” he said, rather more breathlessly than he’d intended.

Hawke obeyed. The shudder was stronger this time, deliciously so. Fenris felt in some vague part of his mind that he ought to be ashamed at enjoying this, but the thought was far away and it was eclipsed by the pleasure that was now washing through him in waves, leaving him wrung out.

“You’ve done this before,” he said, just about managing to keep his voice steady.

“A few times, yes,” Hawke said. He withdrew the fingers. Fenris almost protested at the loss but caught himself – he still had _some_ dignity left – and met that steady gaze, clear and calm in the low light. “That doesn’t bother you?”

“Why would it?”

“It bothers some people.”

“I’m not one of them.”

Hawke looked at him for a moment more, then the corner of his mouth turned up, just slightly. “If it’s any comfort,” he said, “none of them were as pretty as you.”

Fenris snorted. “I’m already in your bed. You don’t have to flatter me.”

“I’m not trying to,” Hawke said.

He took up the little bottle of oil again and turned it from side to side, admiring the way the light gleamed on its polished glass surface. Fenris almost snapped at him to hurry up. He held his tongue instead. The way he felt now – languid and yet thrumming with tense, excited energy, utterly relaxed and at the same time utterly alive with anticipation – seemed like a good middle ground. They didn’t need to hurry. They had all the time in the world.

Of course that was far from true. Still. Sometimes it was nice to pretend.

“Ready?” Hawke said.

Fenris nodded.

Hawke slicked himself up, fingers moving swiftly over his shaft. Fenris didn’t know whether to look or not. He decided on not; shutting his eyes, he lay still and waited to be touched, hands playing nervously with the bedcovers. He startled when Hawke’s hand came down on his shoulder.

“Can you – ” Hawke said, then paused, clearly trying to think how best to phrase it. “Can you open your legs for me a little more? It’ll make things…”

Fenris understood. “Easier. Yes.”

He shifted, parting his knees and sliding both feet along the mattress until there was a shoulder-width space between them. Hawke’s hands went to the insides of his thighs, pressing them apart, and he felt a pulse of heat in the pit of his stomach. “Okay,” Hawke said. “Good. That’s good.” He bent his head briefly, and Fenris got a brief but dizzying look at the sight of that dark head between his legs as Hawke pressed his lips against his inner thigh. Heat, there, and the faint scrape of teeth. Then hands replaced lips and he was shuddering, teeth sinking into his lower lip as he fought to stay collected.

“Easy,” said Hawke. It was not clear if he was speaking to Fenris or himself.

 There was a candle flickering on the table at the edge of the room. Fenris watched the dance of its flame as Hawke pushed in slowly, moving by careful degrees, until he was fully sheathed. He needed the focal point – needed something to ground him. It would, after all, be humiliating to fall apart this early into proceedings.

However, he couldn’t stop the wordless noise that left him as Hawke slid home. He thought he saw the candle flare briefly higher, but decided he must have imagined it.

“Nn,” Hawke said intelligently, face buried in Fenris’ shoulder.

“Move,” Fenris said – demanded, really – and Hawke did.

The pace was slow at first, almost languorous, and he was grateful for it. If it had been faster or rougher he might truly have lost control. As it was, he simply clung to Hawke, arms locked around his neck and mouth against his neck, gasping into the hollow of his throat. Hawke was gasping too, harsher and rougher, and one of his hands was fisted tightly in the bedclothes beside him.

The heat in his stomach was growing, unfurling. It made his stomach muscles tense in a rhythm that matched Hawke’s thrusts, sending jolts of sensation through his body. It was as if he was turning to honey, melting by degrees. Or as if his body was breaking apart. Or – He was getting his metaphors mixed again. A particularly sharp movement made him see stars, toes curling.

“Pinch me,” Hawke managed. “I’ve – _hah –_ had this exact scenario in my head too many times. I’m still not quite sure it’s – “ He broke off momentarily, hand pressing in warning against Fenris’ back, then got control of himself again. “I still can’t believe it’s actually happening,” he finished, marginally more coherently.

“I’ll do more than pinch you if you stop now,” Fenris said, muffled against his skin.

Hawke laughed. Fenris felt it rather than heard it, the ripple moving through them both. “I’ll take that as a compliment,” he said.

Then they were kissing again, rolling against one another in uncontrolled, erratic thrusts. There was no finesse to it; it was all tongue and teeth and spit and Fenris didn’t think a kiss had ever tasted better. He locked his calves tightly together, heels against the small of Hawke’s back, and held on for dear life.

Hawke was close now; Fenris could sense it, and hear it in the way his breath left him with a soft punched-out huff every time he shoved forward. He was moving faster too, as if his body was beyond his control.

His own pleasure was building too, although more gradually. Things were beginning to turn hazy at the edges, leaving only the warm solidity of body pressed against (and into) body, and the smell of Hawke’s hair and skin. Abruptly he had the odd sense that they were no longer two people, but one person in two bodies; merging, like the opposite of Anders and the tamed demon that lived in his head. Fenris pushed away _that_ thought as hastily as he was able. If anything was capable of killing the mood, that was it. He broke their kiss for just a second and asked, “Are you – ” just as Hawke said, “Fenris, I’m – ”

They both laughed breathlessly, the pace not slowing. “You can,” Fenris said. His voice sounded ragged, higher than usual. “It’s fine. You can.”

Hawke’s fingers found his and held on tight as his movements stuttered, nearing completion. Fenris heard himself moan, the sound shaky and ragged. It was like being wine-drunk except a hundred, no, a _thousand_ times better. He bit down on Hawke’s lip, tugging it none-too-gently with his teeth. This seemed to be the tipping point; Hawke tensed, squeezed his hand in warning, and came.

The candle flame shot upwards, sending shadows dancing across the walls. Sympathetic magic, Fenris thought wildly, wasn’t that what they called it? He should have been afraid. He wasn’t. The flame went out, trailing smoke. The initial darkness was velvet and complete. He wished his eyes would adjust faster (in the pitch black Hawke could have been anyone), but the thought was gone as soon as it arrived. _Don’t think about that. Just focus on here. Focus on now._

Hawke’s head dropped forward, resting on Fenris’ shoulder. He breathed hard through the aftershocks, body clenching and unclenching, and Fenris felt a spasm of _something_ so strong he nearly came undone then and there.

He didn’t, though, and at length Hawke gathered himself enough to lift his head, still panting, and say, “Maker only knows what the neighbours think.”

“Fuck the neighbours,” said Fenris.

“My refractory period’s good, but not _that_ good,” said Hawke. Then he caught Fenris’ eye, and added with a weak grin, “You have to admit you walked into that one.”

Their laughter was loud enough that they had to muffle it in the bedclothes, and somewhere in the middle of it Fenris thought _I love you,_ the thought so unexpected and at the same time so certain of itself that he knew it was the truth. Even in the privacy of his own head the idea was so frightening that he knew he had to replace it with something, _anything_ else. Fortunately he had a wealth of distractions at his disposal; and he took advantage of the nearest one, which happened to be Hawke’s lips, still swollen and dark red. Hawke returned the kiss for a few moments, then broke away and said, “Just a moment.”

“Hm?” Fenris replied, a touch dazedly.

Hawke pressed another quick kiss to his mouth, and then he was sliding down Fenris’ body and his mouth was around Fenris’ cock and that was pretty much it for the conversation.

“That feels,” Fenris tried at one point, and then the sentence turned into a wordless whimper that he stifled with the back of his hand. He was _lost_ in it, in the impossible heat of it and the sheer unfamiliarity of what was happening. He could not remember anyone ever doing this to him before. He’d done it to others, plenty of times, but being on the receiving end had never been an option. His hands found Hawke’s hair and he held on for dear life. There was a tug in his stomach and between his legs that felt as if someone was trying to turn him inside out.

Was he making sounds? It was hard to tell. There was a rushing noise in his head that drowned out everything else. The ocean was everywhere. The pressure of the water was building, building until he was certain it would suffocate him. It would be so easy just to open his mouth and breathe it in, let it fill him up. He would sink deep down, right to the bottom of the ocean where everything was slow and silent, and nobody would ever find him.

_Let go._

A low hum that he felt in every nerve, the clever flicker of a tongue, and the wave crested and broke. Light, sound, feeling – everything went quiet as it closed over his head.

Against his better judgement, he let the water take him.

 

* * *

 

_“Leto? Where are you?”_

_Cool green shade. Sunlight falling in bars across his face. Don’t let her see you. Stay small, stay quiet, stay invisible. Stay._

_“I’m coming!”_

_A bubbling laugh. A flash of red hair._

_“Not here. Not here. Not here.” Small hands, lifting up leaves the size of dinner plates to check underneath them. Bare feet, tiptoeing along the stone._

_Then –_

_“Found you!”_

_She pounced, laughing again. The warm press of a body against his side. A puff of breath on his ear, making it twitch. “Yes, you did,” he said. “Very clever.”_

_They stared out through the trellis. The garden beyond was verdant, laid out with as much care as a wedding cake. Gravel paths at perfect right angles to one another. Topiary clipped just so, shaped by careful hands into dragons and rearing horses. The distant plash-plash of a fountain. Flowers. People hardly ever got to see this. If it wasn’t for their palace duties, neither would they._

_“You hid really well,” Varania whispered to him._

_He watched a magister pass not far away from them, robes flaring out behind him. The sun reflected off them, a sudden blinding flash of gold. “Did I?”_

_“Yes.” She shifted, and one hand curled into his sleeve, holding on tight. “I thought you were gone.”_

_“I was never gone,” said Leto. “You just couldn’t see me.”_

_The sun beat down on them._

 

* * *

 

When he came back to himself, Hawke still had his head down and was carefully licking him clean. The sight was almost enough to make him harden again. At the same time he couldn’t help feeling unsettled, in a dark and shifting way that he couldn’t quite place. He rubbed one foot against Hawke’s shoulders, urging him up again.

“Hello,” Hawke said, on his elbows and crawling back up to settle beside him. “How are you feeling?”

“Good,” Fenris said. “Better than. You didn’t have to do that.”

“I wanted to.”

 _It’s degrading._ “It’s unnecessary.”

“You didn’t mind, did you?” Those eyes, their brows drawn together with concern. A hand on his upper arm, unconsciously tracing the contours of the markings. They no longer hurt – or if they did, Fenris was too blissed-out to feel it.

“No,” Fenris said. “I, I didn’t. It’s just – ”

But he gave up. It was too complicated and anyway it was done now, and it hadn’t been _unpleasant._ Definitely not. “Will you stay the night?” he said, doing his best to make it sound like a casual question rather than a plea.

“’Course I will,” Hawke said. “What do you take me for?”

“Nothing less than a perfect gentleman, I am sure.”

Hawke wrinkled his nose.

“What?”

“I’ve been called a lot of things, but never that,” Hawke said. He reached over and began to fumble in his bedside cabinet, hunting for something. His voice came up muffled. “You ought to be careful with that kind of talk, you know. You’ll make me big-headed.”

“You’re already big-headed,” Fenris said, closing his eyes. “If you become any more so, you may have trouble getting through the front door.”

“There now, that’s more like it. Ah!” Hawke found a rag and dipped it in the cup of water by his bedside, squeezing out the excess liquid. “Here. You can finish cleaning yourself up, if you like. Back in a second.”

He got up and left, presumably to piss, and Fenris mopped himself with the rag. It was cool and damp. When he was done he laid it to one side and curled up, sinking into the pillows. The post-coital glow had begun to fade, giving way to a prickly discomfort like nettle-stings. Well. It had been bound to happen eventually, he supposed; shame could only be kept from the door for so long before it forced its way back in. Trying to ignore the feeling, he shut his eyes and curled up tighter, hands fisted in front of his chest.

Not long after that the mattress dipped, and Hawke crawled in beside him, pressing his chest to Fenris’ back. An arm snaked around his ribcage. “All right?” Hawke said very softly.

Fenris feigned sleep, keeping his breathing slow and even.

Hawke sighed. It was a warm breath on the back of his neck. “Well. Goodnight, then,” he said, and went still.

Guilt made itself present alongside shame. Fenris tried to swallow back the squirming feeling creeping up his throat, but as the minutes ticked by he felt worse and worse. Hawke seemed to be asleep. He could say it, couldn’t he? Nothing bad would happen. It was just words.

“Goodnight,” he whispered back, unclenching one fist and touching Hawke’s arm lightly in a gesture of conciliation. “And… thank you. For everything.”

“Mm. Love you,” Hawke said muzzily, and turned over, rustling the bedclothes.

Fenris lay rigid. Something black and awful was opening its wings in his head, beating darkly against his brain.

_No. Oh, no._

The warmth of the bedclothes, previously a comfort, had become suddenly stifling. His blood was rushing through him, and he felt an irrational terror that Hawke would hear it. But he was definitely sleeping now, snuffling gently with every exhale. Would he wake if Fenris simply rolled over and got out of bed and left? Probably. Then there would be questions – a conversation that he couldn’t have, words that he couldn’t bear to say. Words that he couldn’t bear to hear. He bit down on his lower lip, worrying it until he tasted blood.

It could have just been sleep-talk, of course. A drowsy comment, unthinking. It could mean nothing. It probably meant nothing.

His stomach continued to roil.

The night passed by with agonising slowness. He slept, a little: fits and starts, uneasy dreams gnawing at the edges of his mind. Hawke was in most of them. In some he was big and warm and kind, and Fenris was a mean small thing, hissing like a caged animal, snapping mindlessly at the hand that reached out to him. In others he was far away and untouchable. Fenris tried to get to him, but it was as if he was swimming against the tide. When he opened his mouth to call out he found himself choking on nothing. There was something he had to say, something important, but he couldn’t get the words out. His mouth was full of saltwater. There were other things, too – faces that he thought he recognised, places that he somehow knew and didn’t know at the same time. Someone was singing behind a locked door. He couldn’t make out the words, but they were singing to him, he knew that much. _Who are you?_ he said in the dream, but the voice did not stop, and presently it changed and became birdsong and he knew he was awake.

Daylight had begun to creep in around the edges of the curtains, reaching its greedy fingers into the room. Fenris closed his eyes, but he could still feel the light on his face. Beside him Hawke was a solid and incontestable presence, breathing with the regularity of the tide coming in and out.

It should have been perfect. It _was_ perfect.

He lay there, tense with misery.

_Go. Just go now and you can avoid all this. Slip out. Pretend it never happened._

But it had happened, and pretending otherwise wouldn’t do any good, not really. Hawke wasn’t the type to just erase the past. When it came to that, Fenris wasn’t either. Avoidance was useless; Hawke would want to know _why,_ to pick at the few remaining threads of what they’d had till the whole thing came unravelled. Or perhaps he’d blame himself, which would be worse. There was no way around this, no way to avoid someone getting hurt.

No – there was a way. It just wasn’t one Fenris was ready to take.

He sat up as quietly as he could and slid out of bed. His armour lay where he’d abandoned it the night before, piled untidily on the chair. Keeping the clanking to a minimum, he dressed, putting on leggings and undershirt and cold metal on top of it all. Putting the walls back up piece by piece. Given time, he could pretend that he’d never let them down in the first place.

He was just pulling on his gauntlets when he heard Hawke shift, his slow breaths pausing. Fenris swore inside his head. No way around it now.

“Was it that bad?” Hawke said – going for light-hearted, but underneath it there was a crack getting ready to widen. Fenris winced.

“I’m sorry, I’m not…” Oh, excellent. Now he couldn’t even _talk._ “It was fine.”

Not good enough, and he saw Hawke bow his head, hiding his disappointment. The cracks were beginning to deepen into fissures. Fenris grasped for something, anything, that could salvage the situation – and realised to his dismay that honesty was his only option. “No. That is… insufficient,” he said at last. “It was better than I could have dreamed.” The roles, he thought bitterly, had been reversed. Now he was the one whose heart had been tugged out into the open, beating bloodily away for all to see.

“Your markings,” Hawke said. Cautious in a way that he hadn’t been before, and Fenris ached to see it – the loss of that quick camaraderie, the ease with which they’d bared themselves to one another the previous night. “They hurt. Don’t they?”

“It’s not that,” Fenris said, wishing dearly that it was. “I began to remember…my life before. Just flashes.” _Sun reflecting off the water. The glint of gold._ “It’s too much. This is too fast, I can’t – I cannot do this.”

“We can work through this,” Hawke said. Half-pleading, Fenris realised, and despised himself. “Just…don’t run off. Don’t shut me out. Please?”

“I feel like such a fool,” Fenris said. He felt wrung out, ruined. “All I wanted was to be happy. Just for a little while.” The bridge of his nose was stinging, and he turned away to hide the tears threatening to fall. What right did he have to break down now? This was all his doing, anyway. He had come to the mansion; he had made the first move.

“You still can be,” said Hawke from behind him, but it was empty, and they both knew it. That if nothing else finished him; he found he no longer cared what came after this, now that there was no chance left of preserving what they’d had. This was it. It was over.

Fenris moved towards the door of the bedroom and opened it, knowing it would likely be the last time he would ever do so. Hawke’s gaze was heavy on his back. “I’m sorry,” he repeated. He supposed he meant it, but he was too numb to really tell.

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Hawke said, and Fenris said nothing, did not turn around.

 

* * *

 

And so life went back to normal.

Except it wasn’t normal. How could it be? Superficially, nothing between the two of them had changed; Fenris doubted that the others even knew about their _dalliance,_ which was probably how Hawke thought of it. It was how he tried to think of it, too. Something meaningless, something fun. Some days he was even successful.

It was good. He was getting out of this thing, he was using his teeth to rip apart whatever threads still tied him to Hawke, to Kirkwall, to everything. He could leave it all behind, if he wanted. So what if he’d started making a life here? He’d already proved that he could survive anywhere, just with his wits and his blade.

He was fine on his own. That, at least, was the truth. The voice that whispered _You could be better than fine_ was easy to smother. He slept. He trained. He fought. Treading water.

Then Danarius showed up, and everything went – not to put too fine a point on it – to shit.

 

* * *

 

“Do you want to talk about it?” Hawke said.

He’d been tentative with Fenris, even more so than usual, ever since it had happened. Since Fenris had torn Danarius’ heart from his chest and let it drop to the floor with an indescribable thud. Since Varania –

No. Don’t think about that. Don’t.

(you hid really well)

“Not really,” Fenris said.

Hawke said, “After we – you know. _After._ What were you remembering?”

Fenris tensed so hard that a muscle seized in his shoulder, like the string of a musical instrument snapping. It was the first time Hawke had mentioned their night together. He said tightly, “I don’t know.”

 This was not entirely true. He remembered bits and pieces: a voice, a laugh, the flutter of a dress as it vanished around a corner. The rest was like staring into a shadowy pool, shapes flitting to and fro beneath the surface. He could have plunged a hand in to see what was down there, if it weren’t for the fear of being bitten.

Silence for another long, painful moment. Then, “It was her, wasn’t it? Varania.”

Fenris gritted his teeth.

“I’m not trying to pry,” Hawke said. “I promise. I’m just sorry.“

He had only just begun to remember Varania. And then she had been in Kirkwall, and alive, and she had betrayed him. His own sister had betrayed him.

He no longer wanted to call her sister. No sister would do what she had done to him. No sister would have tried to sell him back to the man who had used him, abused him, who had –

(kneel)

“All right. It’s all right. Breathe, now, just breathe, you’re fine.”

His head was between his knees. His eyes were tightly closed. How had that happened? _When_ had it happened? Abruptly, he realised that there was a warm hand on his back, in the curve between shoulder blades and tailbone, rubbing slow circles. It was a cautious, light touch, the way someone might stroke a feral cat to calm it.

“With me,” Hawke said. “One, two…”

He tried to match Hawke’s breathing, and gradually the shallow gasps returned to something resembling normality. The black spots at the corners of his vision began to disperse.

“There,” Hawke said, very quietly, and his hand stilled. “There you are.”

“Apologies,” said Fenris, mostly addressing his knees. “I don’t know what – ”

“You don’t have to explain. It’s fine.”

He sat up, wincing at the pain in his back and chest. “No, I have to…”

But he didn’t know how to finish the sentence.

For the first time, he did want to explain. Hawke deserved that much: deserved to know what had happened, why he was like this, why he was unable to give Hawke what he wanted, why it couldn’t be easy. Why nothing was ever easy, not for him.

The trouble was, he couldn’t. It wasn’t just a single event that could be related plainly, beginning to end, all the gaps filled in and all the loose ends neatly tied. It was a whole life. A whole _world._ Where to begin? He could talk for ever and still not get rid of all of it. It would be easier to crack open his own bones and scrape out the marrow. He pressed his lips together and shook his head, mutely.

“Fenris,” said Hawke. “You don’t owe me anything.”

And his face was so open and so kind that Fenris couldn’t stand it. It was too much. He had to make it go away. He opened his mouth and blurted out – not _the_ truth, but _a_ truth. The worst truth he could think of. He said, “Sometimes I miss it.”

“Miss what?”

“I miss,” said Fenris, “knowing what to do. Not having to – to make decisions. Not having to question things. Sometimes I wake up, and I think – I think, for an instant, how easy it would be. To have someone to tell me what to do and where to go and – ” Something stuck in his throat. Bile or spit. He swallowed it down. “How to exist. There is so much that I do not know. And I get things wrong. All the time, I get things wrong.”

Hawke said nothing. Fenris didn’t look at him, kept his eyes on the floor. “And sometimes I wonder,” he said, and here came the worst truth of them all, the thing that would finally drive Hawke away for good, “whether it would have been better if I had stayed.” A painful breath. It split the silence like a knife. “I would never go back, not now,” he said. Talking came a little easier, now that the hardest part was done with. “I would kill myself before I went back. But before, when I didn’t know any better… What would have happened if I had stayed? If I’d never learned how much I had lost? It wasn’t – it wasn’t terrible, all the time. I was useful. I had a purpose. What good am I, now? What is the point of me?”

In the hallway, something dripped. The roof, most likely. It had never recovered from the storm they’d had a few weeks back. Fenris kept meaning to fix it. He’d put buckets underneath the leaks, to catch the filthy water, but that was all. He listened to the drips and tried to memorise the rhythm of them: drip, dripdripdrip, drip, dripdrip.

Hawke said, “Fenris, you don’t need to be useful.” He sounded so terribly sad. “You just – you just have to _be.”_

“And yet I cannot even seem to manage that.” Fenris choked out a laugh. “How pathetic you must find me.”

Hawke shook his head, slowly. His eyes tracked over Fenris’ face, and the cogs were turning and the gears were whirring. “No,” he said. “Not that. Never that.”

“Tell me,” said Fenris.

Hawke tilted his head. “Tell you what?”

“Tell me what you really think.” His nails dug into his palms. “Tell me I disgust you. That the things I have just told you are perverse, that I am perverse for thinking them. It is the truth, after all. Tell me. I want to hear you say it.”

“What I really think?”

_“Yes.”_

Hawke exhaled. Fenris fixed his gaze on the fireplace, waiting for the axe to fall, schooling his face to show no emotion. The fire was out. Ash had grown over the embers like moss. After what had to have been a full minute, Hawke spoke.

“What I really think,” he said – musing, not questioning. “Hm. Let’s see. You’re brave, for one thing. I’ve told you that already, and I still think it’s true, even if you don’t.” Fenris was already opening his mouth to protest, but Hawke forged on without giving him the chance. “I think you’re clever. You might not be able to read, but you pick things up faster than I do. Languages, cultures, facts, names. That’s pretty damn impressive, I think. Oh, and you’re quick, too. Suppose that’s just another kind of cleverness, but it deserves its own category, don’t you think? Good at strategy. I’d have been killed about six times over if it weren’t for you, noticing something was off, figuring out traps before they closed. Which takes me on to the next point. You’re a great fighter. Strong, for one thing – you have to be, to handle something that size.” He jerked his head towards the greatsword, never far from Fenris’ side. “You fight like you’re dancing. Never actually seen you dance, but I’ve pictured it. What else? Honesty. That’s a good quality to have, don’t you think? Nothing against Isabella, love that girl to pieces, but there’s a special something about knowing you can rely on somebody no matter what. Even if their honesty does sometimes extend to insulting my sideburns or telling me that I punch like somebody’s grandmother.” He considered, while Fenris remained speechless. “Let’s see. You’re determined. Kind, even if you don’t like to show it. Funny, when you want to be. Determined. Loyal. Easy on the eye… Just so I know, is this actually getting through? Because you’re looking an awful lot like someone hit you behind the ear with a dead fish, and I’d hate for my eloquent words of praise to go unappreciated.”

Fenris stared at him.

Oh, he was in deep. This was worse than he’d thought. This wasn’t a temporary condition, it was terminal. He swallowed hard.

What did most people do when confronted with something like this? ‘Thank you’ didn’t really seem to cut it. Hug them, Fenris supposed. But he was wearing his armour, and that probably wouldn’t be very comfortable. There was only one thing that he could say that would equal Hawke’s speech in feeling, and as always, the words wouldn’t come. Saltwater in his lungs. Typical. He fought for something to offer in return, and came up with: “Would you like to stay the night?”

“Er,” said Hawke. “I thought we weren’t – ”

“No!” Too late, he realised how his words would have come across. He wanted to kick himself. “No. Not like that. I only meant – to stay. That is all.”

“Oh, like a sleepover,” Hawke said, brightly.

“I have no idea what that is.”

“Clue’s in the name.”

“I,” said Fenris, magnanimously, “will take the couch.”

“Don’t be an idiot,” Hawke said. “Bed’s big enough for two. No funny business, I promise.” He paused, cocking his head. “What’s that noise?”

“What noise?”

“That tapping sound. Out in the hallway.”

“Oh. Just the roof.”

“A leak?”

“Several leaks.”

“Could be worse,” Hawke said, and yawned. “I’ll help you fix it in the morning.”

“I can do it on my own.”

“I’m sure you can,” said Hawke, “but don’t you think it’d be easier with two?”

He smiled in a way that was probably meant to be winning. It _was_ winning, which was the most annoying part. Fenris conceded the point. “Fine,” he said, with a sigh. “But I am still not letting you redecorate.”

Hawke sighed. “At least get rid of the skeletons? Please?”

“The skeletons stay. I have them how I like them.”

“You are _so_ weird,” said Hawke around a yawn, and fell asleep then and there with his head on Fenris’ thigh. It couldn’t have been comfortable. All the same, he seemed to be as comatose as he would have been in a proper bed with an actual pillow: chest moving rhythmically up and down, breath whistling in a way that should have been annoying but somehow wasn’t. Fenris supposed he had been a cat in a past life; that, it seemed, was the only explanation.

Very tentatively, holding his breath, he let a hand rest in Hawke’s hair. Then combed through it with his fingers. Just once. Just gently. It was softer than he’d expected. Hawke didn’t wake at the touch; he just made a sleepy noise and turned his head into it.

“Nothing could be worse than living without you,” he said, very quietly, to Hawke’s sleeping form.

No one had heard him, but just saying it out loud made him feel naked. Once again, it was as though he’d pulled out his own heart and left it hanging out of his chest where everyone could see it, its loops and ventricles dripping red on to the floor. He couldn’t push it back in with his own two hands. Perhaps one day, if he timed it right, he wouldn’t have to. One day, he might be able to say it while Hawke was awake.

One day.

He closed his eyes and slept.

 

* * *

 

The horizon was aflame.

They had fled Kirkwall while it was still burning, on a ship stolen from one of the merchants who traded at the Docks. Isabela left him with a broken neck and a knife in his back; wrong, perhaps, but what was one more death after everything that had happened? They left Anders behind, too. Just as well. Fenris didn't like to think about what would happen if he'd had to stay in close quarters with the man for the length of a sea voyage. They'd never got along - but Fenris, even in his bitterest moments, would never have thought him capable of something like this. 

He rested his chin on his hands, looking over the water. Dawn was breaking. In less than an hour the sun would be up, but at present it was little more than a faint blue tinge in the sky, waiting for the chance to unfurl. Behind him he heard footsteps. They were uncharacteristically slow and cautious. "Good morning," he said, without looking around. 

"It's still night," said Hawke. He stepped forwards and sat beside Fenris, close enough that their shoulders touched. 

Fenris didn't argue. He sat still, breathing in the scent of Hawke (which was mostly leather and wet-dog) and the salt air. Kirkwall was further away now, but still visible. If he squinted he could make out tongues of flame licking their way upwards from the taller buildings, making windows glow red like the eyes of demons. 

 Kirkwall hadn’t been his home. He hadn’t belonged to it, and likewise it had never belonged to him – not like it had to Varric, who could map its labyrinthine depths (and the people who dwelt within them) as well as Fenris himself could map the forking patterns of scars that crossed his body. It hadn’t been Hawke’s home, either, although he’d wanted it to be. That didn't make it any easier to witness its destruction.

“I suppose we all have something in common now,” he said, staring out at the oily cloud of smoke that lay flat and thin against the sky. 

“What’s that?” Hawke said.

“We’re all displaced persons,” Fenris said. “Isn’t that what they call it?”

“Well,” said Hawke, sounding thoughtful. “Can’t speak for the others, but I don’t feel _displaced_ at all. The way I see it, my place is with you. Has been for a while now.” He turned towards Fenris with sudden alarm. “Hang on – you weren’t planning on going anywhere, were you?”

Fenris looked at him.

“Because,” Hawke said. “That would be completely fine. Obviously. If you want to go. Not that I _want_ you to – I mean, I don’t _not_ want you to, but – Andraste’s arse, I’m making a mess of this.” He blew a long breath out through his nose. “Fenris. I would very much like you to stay. If you decide to leave, though, that is very much all right as well. Like I said before – you don’t owe me anything. Not ever.” He jerked his chin down, seemingly proud at having finished a semi-coherent sentence. “So. There.”

“I’m not going to leave,” said Fenris. He felt, all of a sudden, absurdly happy.

“Oh,” said Hawke. “Good.”

It was the beginning of a whole new day.

 


End file.
